


Another Dime in the Jukebox

by fizzyblogic (phizzle)



Category: All-American Rejects
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, M/M, WIP Amnesty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-23
Updated: 2011-02-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 16:19:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phizzle/pseuds/fizzyblogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From 2007, cleaned up for amnestying. My plans for the rest of this fic were pretty vague; basically, EPIC SHIT OH YEAHHHH.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Dime in the Jukebox

**Oklahoma, 2100**

They met in a Music History class, a few weeks into the semester. The dude had a Queen tattoo on his arm, and Mike leaned forward to whisper, “Hey, you like classical rock?”

The dude twisted around and looked up. “Yeah,” he whispered back, but gestured at the notebook in his hands and went back to taking notes.

Mike glanced at the screen of his qNotes and realised it had written the exchange down, so he shut up again. He carefully kept it hidden behind his notebook, where he was pretending to take notes but actually just doodling. The professor was talking about The Great Apple Crash of ’56 and Mike was only half listening; his qNotes scribbled away, _decades of music were lost, prompting a brief change back to the old system. The compact disc was upgraded and replaced with laserdisc cylinders, but you could only find those in a vintage store now. Not that they would work if you did. This ended, of course, in the loss of almost all music pre-2064 except the opera scores kept by the Italian government when the new media was damaged beyond repair, after which a centralised music database was abandoned._ Mike doodled the lion on the tattoo in his notebook, sneaking looks at the guy in front of him for reference.

“Alright, class,” the professor said at last, glancing at her watch, “I want you to read chapters nine through twelve. We’ll be looking at comparative theoretical studies of classical genres next week, and it _will_ be on your final so I expect you to do your best.”

Queen tattoo guy turned around as everyone was packing away and said, “So you like classical rock too?”

Mike nodded. “I’m Mike,” he said, sticking a hand out, “Mike Kennerty.”

“Nick Wheeler,” the guy replied, shaking his hand. “So hey, you doing anything now?”

“Nope. I’m free all day.” Mike grinned.

“Me too, want to grab some coffee or something?” He quickly added, “That’s not a come-on, just so you know. I got a boyfriend.”

“So do I. Coffee sounds good. I’m starving, though, can we get lunch?” Mike slung his bag strap over his shoulder.

There was a little coffee shop a few minutes’ walk from campus, and it did killer food. It turned out Nick was a freshman and didn’t really know his way around just yet, so Mike pointed out things on the way; the club where the students mostly hung out to shoot pool, the local ethernet centre, and of course, Stoner Hill. Nick ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and picked at it as Mike pretty much devoured his taco.

“You not hungry?” he asked around a mouthful. Nick shrugged.

“I guess, just. Got kinda hungover this morning. I never do that, so I’m still a bit,” he waved a hand.

“Oh. Never get drunk, or never get hangovers?” He took another bite.

“Never get hangovers. I was pretty wasted last night, though.” He gulped at his coffee.

“You want to come see a show tonight? My boyfriend’s band’s playing a bar in another part of town, I could give you a ride.”

“Sure. What sort of music do they play?”

“That new fusion shit. But Chris is on drums, he makes it a little punk.”

Nick lit up. “Wow, you like punk? Man, I haven’t even heard anybody _say_ the word punk except Ty’s dad.” At Mike’s quizzical look he clarified, “Um, Ty’s my boyfriend.”

“Oh! Right. And his dad knows about punk?” Mike leaned forward eagerly.

“Well, no, not exactly. He’s more into classical rock. I think he mostly approves of me because of this,” he indicated the tattoo on his arm.

“You gotta respect the gods of classical.” A beep and a buzzing emitted from his pocket, making him jump a little. “Shit, I forgot I left my qNotes on.” He yanked it out to switch it off, the memory bar flashing ‘FULL’.

Nick stared. “You got a qNotes?” he hissed, keeping his voice quiet. “Aren’t those banned in college?”

Mike grinned. “Not if you know the right people.”

Nick gave him a look and shook his head. “Clearly, I don’t.”

“Oh Nicky,” Mike’s grin widened as he slid over and put an arm around Nick’s shoulders, “you do now.”

Nick showed up that night wearing a Ramones shirt he must have had made somewhere. Chris took one look at him, moved closer to Mike and murmured into his ear, “Let’s keep him.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Mike beamed in reply. “Nick, d’you want a beer?”

“Yeah. Thanks,” Nick replied absently. He was gazing around at the bar, which had pieces of ancient instruments mounted in glass cases on the walls. “What _is_ this place?”

“Affiliated with the Rock Museum of America,” Chris grinned, moving over to sling a welcoming arm over Nick’s shoulders as Mike went to get the beers. “Pretty much nobody plays here, so it’s easy to get a gig,” he added. Nick laughed a little. “I hope you don’t mind classical influences, we’re a little old-fashioned for most people’s tastes.”

“Show him the tattoo,” Mike said, returning from the bar. Nick obediently lifted the sleeve of his shirt. Chris whistled.

“I guess you really _don’t_ mind classical influences. I mean, it’s jazzed up, because everything is nowadays, but still. I guessed by the shirt, but.” He leaned closer, and Nick’s cheeks pinked slightly as Chris examined his arm.

“All this attention, one little tattoo,” he muttered.

“Dude, that’s not just a tattoo,” Chris protested. “Where are you from?”

“Um. Stillwater.” Nick looked startled as Mike and Chris exchanged glances. “What?”

“Did you get that done in Stillwater?” Mike asked him.

“No, I went to Tulsa for it — look, what’s this got to do with anything?” Nick was starting to look uncomfortable.

“No, no, it’s not — it’s just, it’s really unusual. It’s like — the way the music scene is now, in the cities, there’s — nobody’s _into_ classical shit, except historians, and they’re only interested in the theory. There’s no one listening to it, the like, tiny bit that survived. It’s so hard to _find_. That shit is a _statement_ ,” Chris finished, pointing at Nick’s arm. Nick shifted.

“I didn’t mean to — Jesus, it’s just a tattoo,” he protested.

“Hey.” Mike pulled him in by the shoulders. “Sorry to freak you out, man. It’s not as big a deal as Chris is making it.” He shot Chris a look. “We’re just kind of the only people we know who are seriously into it as not like, just some history subject. See?”

“I don’t want to scare you off, dude,” Chris added. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay.” Nick relaxed and swigged from his beer bottle. He had an air of pausing about him, and finally he said, “So um, don’t freak out, okay? But I kind of. Uh. Play rock, back home.”

Mike and Chris both stared at him. “What, like, on old disc players?” Mike asked. “You got a collection of rare shit?”

Nick shook his head. “No, I mean, I play guitar.”

Chris was still staring. “Dude?” he said. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. My um, Ty plays bass, I taught him. And I — I play drums too, we’re gonna record something one day.”

Chris gripped Mike’s arm. “A rock band,” he exhaled. “Like. That _isn’t a history club assignment_.”

“Breathe in,” Mike reminded him. “Nick, dude, let me buy you beers for like, eternity. Or at least tonight.”

Nick grinned. “Hey, I’ll drink to that.” And he did.

Mike watched Chris’s band play, his eyes flicking to Nick every now and then. Nick kept drinking, beer after beer, getting steadily more drunk, and Mike watched him watching the band with a smile on his face. He wondered how the fuck he could have been so lucky as to have sat behind the one dude in the whole fucking country who wanted to play rock music. _Nobody_ played rock music, not for a generation or two, not since electric guitars went obsolete. They were fucking collector’s items for historians now, so how the hell had this kid even gotten _hold_ of one? Mike leaned over in a break between songs and asked him.

“Family heirloom,” was Nick’s slightly unsteady answer. “They’re pretty tight,” he added, pointing to the stage. “Chris is good.”

“Yeah, he is.” Mike thought about the guitar sitting in its case back at home, how he’d saved up for fucking ever and rebuilt parts of it and repaired others and restrung the whole thing his senior year of high school. He’d never met anyone else who owned a guitar, not a proper fucking electric _rock machine_.

When the set ended and Chris hit the bar, Nick joyously drank to the entire band. “To your health!” he exclaimed, clapping Andy on the back.

“Dude, you’re _wasted_ ,” Andy laughed.

“Yes,” Nick answered with no change to the tone and volume of his voice, “I am.”

“Want me to take you home?” Mike asked him, an hour later, when the bartender had resolutely cut the whole lot of them off just to stop Nick stealing anybody else’s beer when they weren’t looking. Not that he had, but the barman obviously wasn’t taking any chances. The words _He’s had enough, and he’s underage_ were definitely a cue to vacate the premises.

“Okay.” He had turned meek suddenly, and was quiet on the way back to his dorm. “Was I a jerk back there?” he asked, once they’d arrived at his door. He leaned against it, fumbling in his pocket for the key.

“No,” Mike reassured him. “Here, let me.” He took the key out of Nick’s hands and opened the door for him.

He didn’t have a roommate, judging by the one bed in the room. Nick stumbled onto it and sat down heavily. Mike looked around, clocking several posters and one framed picture of Nick and another dude with their arms around each other, smiling, the sun lighting up their hair. “That your boyfriend?” he asked, pointing to it.

Nick looked, squinted. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s Ty.” He slumped back against the duvet, and Mike rummaged on the desk until he found an empty glass. He filled it with water from the tap and handed it to Nick.

“Here,” he said. “Drink. You don’t want another hangover tomorrow.”

Nick groaned, but sat up again and gulped down the water. “Ty always,” he started, but then he trailed off. Staring down into his now-empty glass he muttered, “I’m thinking of entering into the exciting world of college dropout.”

Mike sat on the bed next to him. “Yeah?”

“Ty’s like, too many fucking miles away. He’s a junior,” he added miserably, his entire face drooping downwards as he spoke, “in high school. He’s gonna come live with me when he graduates.” He said that sentence fiercely, like he didn’t care if anyone tried to stop them, they’d do it anyway.

“You miss him, huh?” Mike asked, quiet. Nick got up, stumbled over to the sink and filled the glass again, throwing the entire thing back in one go. He wiped his mouth afterwards and burped.

“Yeah,” he sighed, kicking his shoes off and dropping back down on the bed. He flopped onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. “I miss blowjobs. I miss — I miss the way he bitches after every class he hates, but then he’s forgotten what pissed him off ten minutes later. I miss his hands on the bass. I miss him running over to my house and not even saying hi, just grabbing a pen cos he got a song stuck in his head. I miss when he lights up at sunset, his hair …” Nick trailed off into a sigh, and then spoke, softer, “I miss the way he pretends he’s not reading when really he is. I miss him sneaking beer out of his dad’s closet. I miss his pretty fucking _face_.” He threw an arm over his eyes.

Mike didn’t say anything.

“Rock music lives in his head,” Nick sighed after a minute, sounding awed. “Like — like I showed him the beats, once, and his dad’s stuck in some past glory days for music, and somehow in Ty it just clicks. And he writes rock. And when he writes it, _I_ can write it too. Just with him, I can’t — I tried writing on my own, but I can’t, I need him for it.” He looked up at the ceiling and murmured, “I _need_ him.”

Mike still didn’t say anything for a while, but at last he asked, “Do you want me to stay?”

“No, I — sorry, I’m just. Wasted.” Nick gave a sheepish half-hearted attempt at a laugh, like he wanted to joke it off but couldn’t make the effort. Mike decided to let him.

“Okay. Will you be okay if I go now? You won’t like, choke in the night or nothing?”

“I’ll be fine. Thanks, Mike.”

Mike stood up. “’S okay. See you in class?”

“Yeah.” Nick was already staring at the ceiling again. He was still clutching the empty water glass in one hand. “See you there.”

Mike met Tyson two weeks later, when he came to stay for a weekend. He was wearing a ‘IT’S THE 22ND CENTURY. WHERE THE HELL ARE MY HOVERBOOTS, BITCH?’ shirt and Mike had never seen Nick smile as much as he did whenever Tyson was in the room. He didn’t see much of either of them that weekend, but then, he hadn’t expected to.

Nick got insanely drunk for a week after Tyson left. He skipped a lot of classes, but when he started skipping Music History Mike went to find him and discovered him packing the entire contents of his room.

“College Dropout Land here I come,” Nick greeted him cheerfully. He seemed stone cold sober. Mike leaned against the doorframe.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked. “I mean, I don’t really like school either, but there’s no way I’ll get a job without this.”

Nick shrugged. “Me and Ty, we’re bringing rock back,” he declared, folding up his posters and letting his thumb linger over the frame of the picture of them before dropping it into the bag he had open on the bed. “I mean, he has to graduate first and shit, but he’s gonna do that early if he can. We’re gonna get a van, record some songs, go on the road.”

“How long will it take? Before you start touring, I mean.” Mike tried not to quiver with excitement. He had a feeling about this.

Nick paused. “I don’t know, a year, I guess? Maybe a year and a half?”

Mike nodded, took a deep breath, and asked, “Can me and Chris come?”  



End file.
